


The Fugue Feast

by EmmaMae



Series: dangerous men [5]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, First Meeting, I Wish This Was Canon, M/M, Probably ooc, Smut, The Fugue Feast, back story, it's been a while okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 13:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12654870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmaMae/pseuds/EmmaMae
Summary: As Daud tracks a target during the Fugue, he encounters a mysterious Martin who proposes a game of depravity.





	The Fugue Feast

**Author's Note:**

> It has been such a long time since I've last posted - oops! I don't write about these characters a lot, or write much at all (despite being a creative writing student lol), but I found this sitting in my files so I finished it off.  
> I hope it's keeping up with my style for this series, it's just been so long haha.

The Fugue Feast should have been chaos. It had every reason to be; the only day of the year when the citizens of Gristol could indulge themselves with whatever suppressed desire inspired them, free from the restraints of the law, free from moral conviction. It had all the ingredients for total anarchy and unrest, for bloodshed, yet every year it always seemed a little... subdued.

Daud had never been comfortable with the concept of the 'celebration'. It encouraged madness and yet surprisingly madness failed to thrive, leaving only an air of unease. Despite his personal opinion, the day itself was an awful strain on his business. It seemed that those who held grievances with others around this time of year would restrain themselves from spending unnecessary coin and instead take matters into their own hands, exclusively on the day of the Fugue Feast. Which left himself and his small band of mercenaries with very little to do.

He was alone in the crumbling building of the former Chamber of Commerce, the adopted home of the Whalers. He was at a loss for things to do and so he paced around the large room he'd claimed as his office, occasionally he'd pluck a stale cigarette from the pack tucked in his pouch and the act of inhaling the bitter smoke occupied him for a short while, other times he'd pause to examine the wall of faces of those he'd eliminated and those he hadn't yet gotten to, but mostly he walked. It was painfully boring.

It would have been easier to distract himself if it weren't for the distant sounds of a raging party whispering to him in the wind. He could have sat and read one of his old journals, or perhaps a tattered and slightly rotten book left by the building's previous owners, if it hadn't been for the glow of lights in the distance. He'd be lying if he'd said he wasn't tempted.

Thomas, one of his most trusted Whalers, had already tried to convince him to join them. Daud had observed silently as he and the other Whalers hurriedly searched for 'civilian' clothing scattered around the base. Some had even made masks, although Daud had no idea where they'd managed to find the peacock feathers and glitter.

"You should join us." Thomas had said as he attempted to calm his unruly red locks. "It would be good for you to let your hair down once in a while."

Daud barely grunted a refusal. The idea repulsed him. He had never seen the fascination of drinking alcohol for enjoyment, his own drinking habits were restricted for lulling himself to sleep or to settle his mind after a particularly gut-wrenching job, he would never drink just for the sake of it.

He hadn't said a word when he watched Thomas lead the Whalers from their hideout, although the corners of his lips had threatened to curl upwards as Thomas attempted to control the younger and more excitable recruits. He'd been surprised to see Billie, his second-in-command, follow close behind. She'd winked at Daud as she passed him, her dark eyes twinkling with something that could easily be mistaken for anticipation, and Daud had tipped his head to her.

In truth, it was hard seeing them go. He often forgot that they were young, few were barely more than children, and it seemed strange to think of them behaving as anything other than assassins.

He stood on the rooftop of a building close to the base. His eyes danced with the flashing lights and the glow of fires and he hummed along with a small strand of a tune barely audible over the distance. Perhaps it wouldn't be so bad. He could go and investigate those targets that had so far eluded him, or maybe plan his route to a lesser target he hadn't fully considered yet, and it certainly wouldn't make any difference if he lingered to watch the people dance in the glow of the firelight.

The journey didn't take long.

Holger Square, normally dismal with its stiff red banners and angular buildings, had become a fountain of colour and sound. Tyvian red flowed like water and barrels of whiskey were propped on tables, surrounded by thirsty revellers who toasted their friends and the fires and whatever else they could think of. Girls from the Cat were leading both men and women away by the hand. Sometimes, they didn't bother leading them anywhere at all. As the night wore on and the crowd grew, most of the Overseers had lost or abandoned their uniforms along with their masks. Daud had never thought about how refreshing it was to watch the men of faith strip to something almost human and submit to sin. It was oddly satisfying.

He stood half-hidden by shadow with a glass of untouched red in his grasp, and he watched a man he vaguely recognised from a poster, a wanted criminal from long ago. The man must have been ten years or so younger than Daud, yet he spoke with a honeyed voice heavy with nonchalance gained only through experience in this hard-cutting world, and a feline stance that ached with superiority. He drank and he laughed with the men and women surrounding him; yet there was a painful sobriety in his eyes that spoke of a different man to the one he was pretending to be, a slight hitch to his smile and a reluctance in his laugh. Daud wondered whether this creature with his empty eyes and false smiles truly belonged in the light of the fires of the Fugue Feast or to the shadows. Perhaps this man wasn't so different from himself.

It was unclear from which corner of Dunwall this man came from, was he an Overseer or a noble? A civilian or a scholar? Daud couldn't tell what he'd been wearing at the beginning of the night, whether he'd been costumed or not, it seemed as if any identifying clothes had been lost to the Fugue. He wore only an untucked undershirt, with several of its buttons undone to expose the creamy skin of his chest, and a pair of dark trousers stained from a spilt drink.

Daud stole a sip of the wine he'd cradled for the best part of an hour and the taste was disappointing to say the least. What it lacked in flavour it certainly made up for with pungency, in burned a path down his throat as he swallowed. He quickly decided that a drink such as this was better knocked back in one or not at all, and Daud was beginning to lean toward the latter.

"The wine is a poor choice." A voice, low and soft, purrs against the music dwindling in the air. Daud glances to his left to find the sharp blue eyes of the mysteriously empty young man watching him. And it's pleasantly surprising to discover the proximity of the man and how his movement had gone undetected.

Daud looks down at the crimson liquid of his drink, and he briefly considers its similarity to the blood of a recent target, and then back at the man. "And what would you recommend as a competent choice?"

He smiled and Daud found himself unable to look away.

"Nothing from out here, I'm afraid. It seems the only drinks served on the streets is the swill from the Bottle Street distillery. But I do know of a pub with a fine stock of spirits nearby, perhaps that would be more to your taste?"

With a slight nod of his head, he accepted.

The man's name was Martin. Whether it was his first name, Daud didn't know, and when asked Martin simply smiled wickedly and wound his fingers with Daud's, squeezing, he asked of his own name. When Daud answered, there was a brief pause. Martin's eyes were thoughtful, calculating, and then flicked back at him and licked his lips. It was hardly surprising, his name carried a certain weight in these parts, it was enough to make a man back out of a proposal. But Martin was not like other men, he didn't back away or even say anymore on the subject, only gave him a dark and knowing look.

Martin led him to a tavern along the river front, strings of lanterns had been strung up all down the street, a band of men who had had far too much to drink were playing a variety of slapdash instruments, and couples swayed to and fro in the mellow glow. The tavern itself, amusingly titled 'The Drunken Whaler', was a typical sailor's sort of place, its line of whiskeys on the back shelf and the barrels of ale stacked along the bar were its best features. It was nice enough, the lighting was dark and somewhat rosy, the tiles of coloured glass in the windows weren't too badly cracked, and the booths may have been battered but were still comfortable, and generally Daud was impressed. There were few pubs he'd set foot in, most were either too rough or not rough enough, and although he'd never been to this particular one, it seemed a good choice. And he told Martin so as the other man ordered their drinks.

Once they were seated, in a small booth far from the main rabble, Daud realised that getting to the tavern had been the easy part, now he would have to make conversation with this Martin fellow (and conversation had never been one of Daud's strengths).

"So-"

"You have beautiful eyes." Martin interrupted, without even a moments hesitation. Daud was taken somewhat aback, he knew that these situations were a game and if he played his cards right he'd have the man pinned against a filthy mattress in a back room somewhere before the dawn, but this was not how the game is usually played. There was a glimmer of mischief in Martin's eyes, a spark of life that seemed so far from the painfully vacant look he'd held in the square; the man licked at his lips as he waited for a response. Daud had the idea that Martin held the winning hand for an entirely different game to the one he'd believed them to be playing, the rules were different though he hoped the outcome remained the same. He wondered what those thin lips could do.

"You like my eyes?" Daud almost laughed. He tipped the amber whiskey in his glass to meet his lips, knowing he'd need the aid of the alcohol to assist him in this dangerous game.

"Mm," Martin had this mesmerising smile, one that told of all the things that Daud could never know, and a look in his eyes that spoke of the unholy things he longed to do. "You could kill a man with eyes like that."

Daud chuckled softly. "You're a funny man, Martin."

"Believe me, my talents do not lie in comedy."

The assassin's breath caught in his chest, mesmerised by the man's lips, he felt his trousers become a lot tighter than before. The drinks were abandoned at the booth, Martin's left barely touched whilst Daud's had been quickly downed, a small drop of whiskey left on the wood of the table in his haste. He pressed the slighter frame of the mysterious yet irresistible Martin to the brick and mortar wall of the pub; hands exploring the man's sleek body as his tongue tasted his mouth. It was a power battle, each man attempting to claim dominance over the other, and though Daud was physically larger than Martin, the man was slicker with each passing moment, every kiss and nibble at his lip was carefully planned to keep Daud's strength at bay.

Daud was not a handsome man. Once, he may have been, years before when he was but a boy playing under the burning sun. Now, his face was hard with age, paled from stress and the lack of Serkonos sun, his skin marred with angry scars. He was not a handsome man; but he was striking. Martin pulled back just to look at him, a thumb tracing the curve of his cheek where it met the corner of his lips. Daud licked at the tip of his thumb teasingly, drawing it into his mouth, tasting salt and a hint of the rust of blood on the other man's skin. What a mysterious creature, Daud thinks as he watches Martin start to unravel, his mouth forming an 'o' shape whilst his eyes darkened as he drew into himself and the pleasure he was experiencing. An empty vessel of a man smiling and drinking like the rest of them, yet with a roaring hunger within him that Daud feared (and hoped) would never be sated, a man with a vaguely familiar face and another's blood on his hands. The Fugue may inspire a manner of characters to join the depravities of the festival, though Daud couldn't help but feel as if he had won the jackpot with his little find, this gorgeous man just bursting with secrets. His silver tongue and capable hands. Daud didn't know how much more he could take.

"Enough teasing." Daud smirked, dropping his hand from Martin's lightly stubbled face to grab him by the hand. "I know a quiet place for us to go."

It wasn't far, only a few streets over, though Martin made the short walk unbearable with a few sneaky touches and risqué comments. In a city like Dunwall, it was never difficult to find a room to rent for a few hours, though the price was reasonable the quality was consistently lacking. It was a squalid little room, the faded floral wallpaper barely clinging to the walls, the corners riddled with mould and damp. There was little slithers of light from the fires of the fugue seeping in from the closed, yet broken, shutters, illuminating the bed. Buzzing with anticipation, Martin kicked the door closed and grabbed Daud by the coat, their lips meeting in a wet and hungry kiss. Hands grabbed at clothing, eager fingers undressing and caressing simultaneously.

Martin stepped back to take a moment to appreciate Daud's physical prowess, the broadness of his shoulders and the solidarity of his body. He wanted to straddle him, to feel the strength coiled under his marred skin surge beneath him. Daud had other ideas. A strong hand guided him down to rest on his knees amongst the dust and the filth, and Martin took the assassin's belt into his hands and careful unfastened the buckle like a child unwrapping a present, delight and vague fear flickering across his features as he freed Daud from the garment. He peppered it with kisses, familiarising himself with the musky taste it left on his lips, his tongue timidly exploring the soft skin as his hand teased and stroked. The low noise that escaped Daud's throat hinted at his frustration at Martin's pacing, eager for him to take a proper taste. He moved his hips gently, hoping to inspire a reaction, when he felt Martin's lips curve into a smile. Impatient now, Daud thrusted into his mouth, relishing in the sound of surprise that Martin made though he doesn't dare let him pause for breath. He's learnt that Martin is not a man who gives in easy, with tears clouding those sharp blue eyes he moved, sucking and tongue exploring, until Daud's back is arched with pleasure and he can barely hold back a moment longer. Martin finds himself loving the moment when Daud lets go, his hand at the base of his skull gathering his hair into his fist, pushing him further down until Martin has taken him to his base. Martin holds the older man's hips so tightly that there is sure to be bruises in the morning. With Daud's careless and desperate thrusts pushing through him, Martin found himself enjoying it a little more than he thought he should; the sixth a distant siren in the back of his mind.

He finished with a moan that racked the walls and sent shivers down Martin's spine, the last few sloppy thrusts spilling the seed from his lips and onto his chin. Though, even as he Daud retracted from his mouth, Martin didn't dare let a drop go to waste, collecting it with his tongue. The assassin's scarred face was flushed and jewelled with pearls of sweat, though his wolfish grin told that he wasn't done yet.  
Martin grinned at him wickedly, his lips wet and hungry. He stood, a pale hand grasping the back of Daud's hair, pulling him closer for a fierce kiss. When he pulled away, he left the taste of salt and sweat on his tongue, though Daud had an appetite for more. Martin pulled away, grabbing his shirt from the bed. "This was a lot more fun than I anticipated, a welcome distraction, though I have other matters to attend to."

Daud scrambled to understand the rejection, quickly tucking himself away and made a start to follow the other man to the door. "You're leaving? Now?"

Martin nodded, thrusting the door open. "There are only a few dwindling hours left of the Fugue and I have more sins I'd like to commit. Though, I'm sure you'll find a way for us to meet again, and we can continue where we left off." A smirk hung on the corner of his lips and there was a twinkle to his eyes as he disappeared behind the door, leaving Daud to consider what sort of man lay behind those depraved blue eyes and that dangerously sharp tongue.

A mystery he was determined to solve.


End file.
